Paint it Black
by jaggersmith
Summary: Nobody wants to hurt a beautiful thing, but inevitably, we all do at some point, sometimes without even knowing it. Don't say that's not true, because of course it is. Rating subject to change. Main pairing: MysteryxChina
1. White Flag

**While the character whose POV this is in is not actually mentioned as of yet, as you read, it should be easy enough to figure out.**

**Enjoy!~**

**Chapter 1: White Flag**

No one wants to hurt a beautiful thing, but, inevitably, we all do at some point, sometimes without even knowing it. Don't say that's not true, because of course it is.

You can't live in this world without destroying something. It's simple chemistry. Everyone knows it, even if on a subconscious level.

But then again, there are those rare cases in which you end up making something downright gorgeous.

What you think of me, of us, at the end of this story, will depend on how you look at things. On how you slant sentences to your own ideals.

This tale is very simple, I'll tell you that right now. It's not much of anything special. It's a story about many things, the least of which include one boy, one girl, my favorite songs, and that quiet feeling of desperation that sneaks up behind you when you realize you can't do anything against the overarching presence of your own destiny.

I'm not trying to make any kind of point. I'm just here to tell you what I remember, before it's too late. Take these words as you will, but always remember that they will resonate differently in another's ears.

Nobody said it was easy being me. I certainly wouldn't say that. Of course, I will concede that you lead a life that is extremely different from mine. Our lives are sure to be almost polar opposites, in fact.

You probably go to school or go to work or lounge around all day in your pajamas doing absolutely nothing. You probably eat food that you want to, and while you may get bored of the same routine day after day, every minute of your life is probably filled with innumerable choices and potential.

My life, on the other hand, is a very different set of "probably"s.

Today, I will probably get beaten up. Today, I will probably, no, make that surely, eat nondescript food divided into little squares on a nondescript plastic tray. Today, I will probably be threatened in the beige corridor, the blind spot between the two cameras.

Today, while you do your chores or your homework, I will scratch another tally mark into the pockmarked granite wall.

Tonight, while you sleep on a thick mattress under two layers of warm blankets, I will toss and turn restlessly on a hideously stained, lumpy cot, listening to hushed breaths and the squeaks of leather soles on the tiles.

In the dead of night, while you dream peacefully about whatever it is you dream about, I will be caught in the swirls of a nightmare, unable to escape.

Tomorrow morning, when you wake up and wish you still had more time to sleep, I will wake up and wish that I could lose myself in sleep again, will realize once again that my reality is far more terrible than any nightmares I could have conjured.

And yet, if I had the choice, I would do it all over again. I would start that chain of reactions that led to me being here in the first place. After careful retrospect, I would pick up that baseball bat, would pull that trigger, would redo everything to produce the outcome I'm living now.

I can't say I like it, but I, unlike others, know without a doubt that I'm right. And I guess that's all that really matters.

_And when we meet_

_Which I'm sure we will_

_All that was there_

_Will be there still_

_I'll let it pass_

_And hold my tongue_

_And you will think_

_That I've moved on_

_I will go down with this ship_

_And I won't put my hands up in surrender_

_There will be no white flag above my door_

_I'm in love, always will be…_

_ _

_I will go down with this ship_

_And I won't put my hands up in surrender_

_There will be no white flag above my door_

_I'm in love, and always will be…_

_ _

_I will go down with this ship_

_And I won't put my hands up in surrender._

_There will be no white flag above my door_

_I'm in love, and_

_ _

_ Always_

_ Will_

_ Be…_


	2. Never Say Never

**Never Say Never - The Fray**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 2: Never Say Never<strong>

This might be only chapter two of my story, but really, it's day 9,861 of the saga. If you want to get technical, the story doesn't really start until day 6,762. The first 6,761 days are just filler, a nondescript prelude to something much more dramatic than even I realized at the time.

But I guess on day 6,762 of my then fairly normal existence, I didn't realize much of anything, except for how utterly sad the whole situation was.

Today's my birthday. June 27. I can't really say much except for the fact that it's really hot in this room.

You would think they'd have better ventilation. It's only the humane thing to do. Or at least have some type of suicide button, something you could press that just ends it all right away, because, honestly, trying to drown yourself underneath a faucet is a pretty painful and dumb way to off yourself.

Believe me, I've tried.

Have you ever seen the sun rising and tried to catch the pale pink rays in your hand before they faded away to paint the undersides of the swollen clouds with gold? What age were you when you finally realized that you weren't meant to hold such intangible beauty in your hands?

Can you remember the last time you saw a shooting star and tried to make a wish before it hit the ground?

I remember, too.

Both of these incidents occurred on the saddest day of my life.

April 17, 2003, was the day that I made time stop for three different people. Of those three, two of them were flash frozen in a downcast vignette of a life that could have been much better. The third, well, the third person's life was put on pause for a few hours, and then instantly fast-forwarded into something they could never have imagined.

I should know.

I was that third person.

I'll say it directly. Yes, I'm guilty.

My lawyer tried to plead insanity, tried to make it look as though I wasn't aware of my actions on that day, at that moment.

I'm not insane. And I forced him to withdraw that statement, because I personally hate living a lie.

I know he was only trying to do his job. It wasn't his fault.

People make all these lawyer jokes, call them heartless and unemotional, that trying to get some emotional connection with them is about as productive as trying to maintain a relationship with a rock. But they're really not as bad as people say they are.

My lawyer was the only one who believed me completely.

There's a funny thing about the legal system, though. Sometimes the people who aren't guilty of anything except for loving too much get locked away, while the actual criminals, the real wrongdoers, are set free again and again.

Practicing law is like playing a game. You have to be able to tell a good story. Whichever side can present the best, the most convincing, explanation is the winner.

That doesn't mean that those explanations are always right.

In fact, many times, these stories are completely wrong.

Like the story of myself.

I'm 27 years old today; I've spent approximately 8 years of my life here. You may be wondering, Where is 'here,' exactly? In order to answer your question, 'here' refers to a bitterly lonely jail cell in Dallas, Texas. A tiny room 9 feet by 12 feet. One window, barred, of course. Bars surrounding the doors so inmates can stick their hands out in supplication. Security cameras everywhere, watching, always watching, while you sleep, eat, wash. Two inmates to a cell. No more, no less.

The sinks are made of metal, the floors, walls, and ceilings of unforgiving gray granite.

The window is the worst. The absolute worst.

You look outside and you see azure sky, swirls of cloud scattered across a blue canvas like sheep in a pasture. You can hear the birds singing like nothing else matters. And then you look down, and see chain links tipped with razor, so you'll cut yourself to death before you ever climb out.

I never thought I'd be here. Ever.

But I knew what I was doing on April 17, 2003. I knew what it would lead to.

This is the life I chose, but that doesn't mean I enjoy it. Not at all.

_Don't let me go…  
>Don't let me go…<br>Don't let me go…_


	3. Marching Bands of Manhattan

**Marching Bands of Manhattan - Death Cab for Cutie**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 3: Marching Bands of Manhattan, part I<strong>

My roommate sucks.

Well, not roommate, exactly. The proper term would be 'cellmate,' if you wanted to get technical.

In jail, the living arrangements are a lot different than in, say, college, for example. In college, you get asked questions about your personality, and the faculty assigns you roommates that are like you, that you can, for all intents and purposes, get along fairly well with. In jail, there's nothing like that.

They put you in wherever there's space. And, with the growing rate of crime these days, soon there won't be as much space as there is now.

I heard in California they have three roommates to a cell now. They stack the bunk beds three high to solve the issue of overcrowding.

It makes you wonder if the police know what's really going on behind the bars. If they know there's a drug trade wrapping everyone in a nasty web of addiction. If they know there's many more sophisticated ways to get out of here than using a plastic spoon to dig through the loose mortar between the granite. If they know that these escape routes can often be found in the bottom of a shampoo bottle or on the fluffy underside of a pillow.

Anyway. I'm getting a bit off topic here.

My roommate is exactly the kind of person you wouldn't want to meet in a dark alley in the middle of the night.

Here's a quick profile:

Name: Gavin Bridgewater. Age: 19. Height: 6'2". Crime: Seven charges of first-degree murder. Punishment: Life without parole.

Needless to say, I'm slightly terrified by him.

Only slightly, though.

I could totally take him in a fight.

I think I'm going a bit loopy. Stir crazy. Whatever you want to call it.

I've been here too long.

Last night, somewhere between dreams and awareness, I hallucinated a smell.

It smelled like her cold cream, her perfume, her laundry detergent.

It smelled like comfort.

It smelled like home.

That was when I woke up to the quiet drip-drip of the faucet into the metal sink, the creaking of the springs in the lumpy mattresses; that was when I woke up to the realization that home was a place I could never go to again simply because it didn't exist anymore.

You must be pretty bored if you're reading this. I mean, I don't really know how to write. Well, to be fair, I've never tried, either.

Sometimes, I feel like my writing is like that of someone who pulls out a dictionary, flips to a random page, a random word, and just keeps doing that until he makes a sentence. Other times, it's like the words can't come, that no matter how many thousands of words I write, I won't be able to capture the raw emotion and thought that they need to have.

And most of the time, I just write because I like knowing that someone, somewhere, could be listening. God, and all manner of higher powers, stopped doing that a long time ago.

I used to be really religious. Went to Mass, received Communion, all that Catholic hypocrisy. I was even religious for about, oh, my first two weeks here. I eventually realized that it wasn't worth it.

Did you know makeshift crosses can be used as knives? With a little bit of hard work and a lot of desperation, it's easy enough to turn a prayer into a weapon.

_Sorrow drips into your heart through a pinhole  
>Just like a faucet that leaks<em>

_And there is comfort in the sound_

_But while you debate half empty, or half full,_

_It slowly rises_

_Your love is gonna drown…_

_Sorrow drips into your heart through a pinhole_

_Just like a faucet that leaks_

_And there is comfort in the sound_

_But while you debate half empty, or half full,_

_It slowly rises_

_Your love is gonna drown…_

_Sorrow drips into your heart through a pinhole_

_Just like a faucet that leaks_

_And there is comfort in the sound_

_But while you debate half empty, or half full,_

_It slowly rises_

_Your love_

_ is gonna_

_ drown…_


	4. Your Love is a Song

**Your Love is a Song - Switchfoot**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 4: Your Love is a Song<strong>

I think the worst part about jail is the exercise courtyard.

Not that I don't like to exercise or anything. In fact, here, you kind of have to. Keeping on your toes is part of how to stay alive here.

It's just I don't like having to be forced to do anything.

They force you to go outside and exercise at least once a week, rain or snow or hail or sleet or unbearably oppressive heat.

First, to get there, officers come, cuff you, and lead you down the sterile halls. Your feet in the regulation black rubber-soled shoes, shuffle, shuffle, squeak, squeak on the tiles. Silver links click, clack against each other as you walk, constantly reminding you of where you are. Hands from other cells reach out, whispering along your clothes, silent askance.

You try to ignore the stares, because that makes it worse, knowing you can't really do anything about it.

You go outside for an hour. Sure, I guess the first few times it's a bit fun, change of scenery and all that. After the first few times, the exercise courtyard becomes downright depressing.

The air tastes like liberty. The sky looks down at you, a brilliant blue painting the backs of your eyelids. You can hear the outside world, the distant rumbles of car engines, the hot wind whistling through the squares of the chain link fence.

If you stay very, very still, you can feel your own heart beating, pulsing through your arteries.

Outside, you can taste freedom, just a few inches away. Just hundreds of razors away.

How pitiful must it look to the outside world, I wonder, to see these dozens of inmates day after day, clinging to the chain links as if they could be their salvation.

Then again, who notices that? Who would want to be reminded of people like me day after day, driving home from work, going home to children, to lovers, to comfort?

And, besides, it's a misconception. Us inmates don't really do that. Reach for the outside world, I mean. At least, the ones used to it don't.

The new ones who have been freshly sentenced still have that unbroken hope, that, somehow, somewhere, someone can see them. That this someone will reach out in return and take their hand to lead them forever out of this place that we now call home.

In my own defense, I never had the intention to do it. But I mean, what would you have done if you had been downstairs repairing the sinks in the kitchen and, all of a sudden, just heard a scream? Wouldn't you have been pretty freaked out too?

I know the law is supposed to be clear-cut justice. Follow the rules. Don't take emotions into account. Don't deviate from the rules. Never deviate from the rules.

But I think that there are extenuating circumstances for every case.

I don't think it's possible to come to a unanimous judgment unless you take every possible moment of that instance and live it for yourself.

Now, of course, that's a bit impossible, isn't it? How could you ask 12 jurors to go out and go through the exact same motions as every criminal? Then you'd have 12 more criminals on your hands.

They say they make it a jury of your peers.

What. A. Joke.

There are three mainstream definitions of peer. The first one refers to someone of the same legal status as yourself. The second one refers to someone you're friends with. The third one is a verb, and means to look narrowly or searchingly, as if trying to find something.

The first two are definitely not true. They don't know what you're going through. They're most certainly not your friends.

Really, they're just the third meaning. They look through your soul, rummage through your precious memories, toy with your emotions, and, at the end, let you down.

_I hear you breathing in_

_Another day begins…_

_The stars are falling out_

_My dreams are fading now, fading now…_

_I've been keeping my eyes wide open_

_I've been keeping my eyes wide open_

_Ooooh, your love is a symphony_

_All around me, running through me…_

_Ooooh, your love is a melody_

_Underneath me, running to me,_

_Oh, your love is a song…_


End file.
